


Solo

by Valeria2067



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF, Danger, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Teen Hamish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 01:57:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/pseuds/Valeria2067
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seventeen-year-old Hamish encounters -difficulties- walking home alone late one evening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solo

Hamish turned up the collar of his dark wool coat and hunched his shoulders against the cold.

The footsteps were still following him.

They were nearly matching his pace but getting a bit more rapid every few seconds. Hamish was not more than two blocks from Baker Street, but he knew that the weather and the time of night made this particular area effectively isolated. He also knew that his Father and his Dad were out on a case tonight, not home in the warmth of 221b

He hadn’t looked behind him, but he could judge by the sound and tempo of the other footsteps that the person following him was about Hamish’s own weight, though probably seven to ten centimeters shorter. Most likely armed, then, he thought, if their intended meeting was not meant to be a friendly one. For that reason, Hamish had kept up a brisk pace, forcing his pursuer to expend energy trying to match the longer stride.

Run, and he might shoot.Turn and confront him now? Keep walking and hope he’ll lose his nerve? Hamish didn’t get the opportunity to make a decision.  
“Oi! Holmes!” a rough voice called out.

Hamish stopped in his tracks but did not turn round. 

“I wouldn’t try to run Mr. Holmes,” the voice said from a few paces closer.

Hamish turned slowly, his hands still in his pockets. “It’s Mr. Watson-Holmes, actually.” He gave the shorter, muscular man a pleasant smile.

The other man grinned in reply. He was indeed holding a handgun; Hamish could see the outline of it and the man’s fist clenching it underneath the light material of the polyester windbreaker. Too heavy to be a plastic toy, going by the obvious weight of it against the bottom of the pocket.

“Ooooh, son, but do you ever take after your papa! Lookit you! And are you a big detective, too, lad? Eh? You a nosy git like your old man?” The shorter man’s grin turned hard. Hamish could see the hand in the pocket twitch as it held the gun.

“Only on occasion,” he replied calmly. “Do you need help of any kind? May I be of assistance in my father’s place?”

The other man put a rough hand up to his own chin, obviously contemplating the possible benefits and risks of the next move. He was looking Hamish up and down, sizing him up for something Hamish could only imagine was not pleasant.

“Oh, I think you’ll do right well in your father’s place, my boy. You’ll bring him to us, if nuffin’ else. There’s a van coming round the corner in a minute. Why don’t you come for a ride, eh?” 

Hamish continued to play innocent. “Well, I live only about a block away. Father should be home by now. Why don’t we walk there, and I can introduce you properly? I don’t think we need your van.”

The van in question turned the corner and pulled up alongside the kerb.

“Go on. Get in,” the shorter man ordered. He took the handgun out of his pocket just enough to let Hamish see that it was indeed real. He smiled up at Hamish. “If you please, Mr. Watson-Holmes.”

The van’s side door slid open to reveal another, similar-looking man already inside. He didn’t seem to be armed. That put the odds a bit more in Hamish’s favour. Hamish looked around briefly, scanning for any faces peering out nearby windows. There was no one.

A look of panic spread across his face. He started to breathe a bit more heavily. “Wait, wait…what’s happening? What have I done?” Soon his voice was trembling, and he was gasping out his words. “Please… my Father is very influential… I’m sure he can do whatever you need… just don’t.. just don’t shoot…. Oh, God…” Hamish lurched forward half a step, then bent his head down and put his hands on his knees, hyperventilating.

His would-be kidnapper reached out and took his arm roughly. In an instant, Hamish had the man’s arm, indeed his whole body, bent painfully backward. Hamish reached inside the polyester jacket and retrieved the handgun. He pointed it at the accomplice in the van. “Tell the driver to get out. Now.”

The accomplice and the driver exchanged panicked looks. Hamish adjusted his aim and fired the gun; the bullet shattered the side window and buried itself near the ignition on the dashboard. All three of the other men jumped at the sound, and the two inside clambered quickly out of the van. They stood on the pavement with their hands slightly raised.

Hamish kept the gun pointed at the one who had been the driver. His original pursuer was groaning in pain, now, but Hamish did not release his expert hold. Hamish looked at the third man. “Get my phone out of my right-hand pocket, if you would,” he said with a smile.

The man approached Hamish cautiously and slowly removed the smartphone. 

“Thank you,” Hamish nodded. “Now, if you would kindly read me the most recent incoming text message?”

With shaking hands, the man brought up the text. “Three units on the way. Remain at location as long as possible. –MH,” he read in a wavering voice.

“And the one before that?” Hamish asked.

“Nearby. – SH” The man could barely keep the phone steady enough to read.

“Excellent.” He loosened his grip on his captive and nudged him to move over beside the others. “Now, gentlemen, please stay right there.” He held out his free hand. “I’ll have my phone back, if you please.”

Hamish took the phone and glanced quickly at the display. “Oh.” He said. He looked at the man he’d just released. “I think this message is for you. Care to read it aloud?”

He held the phone in front of the man’s face. Still rubbing his arm and wincing, the man read out, “Behind you.” He looked confused. “I don’t unnersta-“ His words cut off as he was caught by the collar and thrown violently against the side of the van.

He tried to keep his balance, but a sandy-haired man about the same height grabbed his lapels and shoved him back again. There was a barely-contained feral anger in the blue-grey eyes that faced him. When he spoke, his voice was clipped, precise, like a commanding officer.

“I suggest you stay far, far away from my son. For the rest of your life, if you want to have one.”

Soon there were sirens and flashing lights and uniformed police officers everywhere. Hamish gave the handgun to a young, blond officer who smiled at him a bit more brightly than was strictly professional. Hamish returned the smile in kind. He turned and saw his Father walking toward him.

“You all right?” he asked, taking his son by the shoulders and scanning him from head to toe.

Hamish nodded. “Fine. All fine. Standard procedure works again.”

Sherlock nodded, but didn’t let go of his son.

“I don’t call wrestling your kidnapper and taking his weapon standard procedure, Hal” said a voice from behind. Hamish turned and found that his Dad had given up terrifying the prisoners but was still trying, with difficulty, to control his temper. “You do realise that about twenty things might have gone wrong in that situation?”

Hamish grinned. “I only counted four possibly negative outcomes, Dad. Getting into the van presented at least six. Well, seven, if you count getting carsick.”

Sherlock Holmes grinned. John Watson looked from Hamish to Sherlock, then back again.

“Did one of the outcomes include being confined to your room for the next twenty-four hours?” John asked.

“Dad…. You’re not….you’re not grounding me, are you? I’m seventeen years old.” Hamish laughed weakly.

John looked at the boy’s Father. “Sherlock? What do you think?”

Sherlock looked closely at his son. “Hamish, you’ve taken a serious risk and upset your Dad very much. Please say you’re sorry at once.” He managed to keep most of the laughter out of his voice.

“I’m sorry, Dad” Hamish said, hanging his head in mock shame.

“Now, I believe you should give him a hug to prove your apology is sincere.”

Hamish all but fell onto his Dad, wrapping his arms around the shorter man and burying his head in John’s neck. “Please don’t be cross with me, Daddy!”

John staggered back a bit under the force of his son’s embrace. He glared at Sherlock. “Okay, okay. Yes. Right. I forgive you. You’re not grounded. Now let go, Hal.” 

Sherlock’s grin broke into a broad smile. “You did admirably, Hamish. And I’m sure he put your extensive firearms training sessions to good use, John. Our son isn’t an amateur. He’s probably as skilled as most of the officers here right now.”

Hamish released his Dad but left one arm draped around his shoulder. John wrapped an arm instinctively around him. “No, Sherlock, you’re right.” He looked up at Hamish. “If it didn’t involve my son…., well….. that bloke I was chatting with by the van wouldn’t have a broken rib right now, I can tell you.”

“John Watson. And you a doctor! Hamish and I are appalled. Aren’t we, Hamish?”

“Appalled, Dad. Violence isn’t the answer.” Hamish replied with a smile.

John huffed. “When endangering you is the question, Hal, then yes it is. He’s lucky all he has is a broken rib to remind him.” 

Sherlock put his arm around Hamish, too.

“I suppose we’d best get back to Baker Street. Lestrade will want to speak to you both in the morning. You may as well rest.”

Hamish nodded. “You think he already knows?” he asked.

Sherlock took out his phone and held it for Hamish to see. “He texted me that the police were on the way here just ten seconds after you sent your distress message to me and to Mycroft.”

John looked confused. “Greg’s not on duty tonight, is he? This is supposed to be his night off.”

“Precisely,” said Sherlock. “We aren’t the only ones with close connections to the British Government.” He gestured in the direction of 221b. “Shall we?”

Sherlock, John, and Hamish headed for home.


End file.
